


Love Ain't Brains, It's Blood

by wildarcana15



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Sex, Bottom Sam Winchester, Butt Plugs, Control Issues, Dom Dean Winchester, Don't copy to another site, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, Hair-pulling, M/M, Needy Sam Winchester, Post-Coital Cuddling, Power Play, Protective Dean Winchester, Sub Sam Winchester, Top Dean Winchester, but again it's only a reference and is very brief, but it's only in there once and is a reference, it doesn't actually happen at all, just wanted to tag that just in case, slight bloodplay, there's a reference to Sam being into gunplay, there's also references to potential daddy kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-10-13 13:28:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17488895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildarcana15/pseuds/wildarcana15
Summary: Sam's kind of a needy brat, Dean's definitely a smug little shit, and Sam totally doesn't have any latent kinks. Honest.Pretty much just some Sam/Dean vaguely kinky smut with fluffy afters.Set in the bunker sometime outside of canon where they get to be together and happy.





	Love Ain't Brains, It's Blood

Dean’s body wraps around him like a cage, his forearms resting firmly on the wall either side of his head.

He’s tall, taller than Dean, but somehow that doesn’t matter.

Nothing does, except the warm weight of Dean’s muscled body pressing up against him, an undeniable force he doesn’t want to even think of fighting.

Sam ducks his head, tries to go in for a kiss. Dean’s hand grips his hair, trapping him.

He whines in the back of his throat.

“Fuck, Dean.” He tugs against Dean’s fingers, and he’s given no quarter.

“That’s later.” Dean’s laugh is dark, smug; the kind that Sam hates because it’s so unfairly hot. Dean’s lips brush the shell of Sam’s ear, and he shivers. “Told you you should cut your hair, Sammy.”

“Jerk.” Sam manages the insult, hazily aware that it lacks any venom to give it sting. He sounds whiny, even to his own ears.

“You wanna know why I think you don’t cut it, baby?” Dean’s crooning the words, nuzzles into Sam’s neck. Sam’s hands fly up, scrabbling for purchase against the worn leather over Dean’s back. He needs something, anything, to cling to, to ground the fractured remnants of his sanity. Dean’s voice, low and gravelly, coils like a rope around Sam’s libido and makes his traitorous dick want to sit up and beg. The way Dean pronounces the word  _ baby _ should be illegal.

“Jesus!” Sam gasps as Dean nips at his earlobe, softens it with a gentle lick.

“I think you like it.” Dean’s fingers tighten in Sam’s hair, and Sam can’t help the tiny, needy whimper that escapes him. “How’s that, college boy? You cover those kinds of control issues in psych class? I think you want me to be able to make you vulnerable easy. You know it’s a liability, an opening for danger, and you fucking love that I can use it against you.”

Sam can’t tell if he wants to shove Dean away or make the bastard fuck him raw. His hips buck up against Dean’s and that question is answered pretty fast, because he’s hard as a goddamn handgun, and he’s got to get himself under some semblance of control but somehow his mind is going wild with it, with this, the image of a gun and Dean’s assured, domineering words flooding him with hot-cold, prickling need that buzzes right from where his hair is aching in his scalp to his toes curling in his boots in pleasure.

“God, Dean.” Sam’s voice is rough, unsteady, and he lets his arms fall from Dean’s shoulders so he can helplessly try to find a way to get Dean to just fucking kiss him already. He can’t, his arms are long but they won’t reach Dean’s collar properly. He tries to thread his fingers into Dean’s hair, and the strands slide right through his hands as he tries to grip, weakly, and he feels Dean’s soft sigh, because it’s more a caress than anything forceful. “Please.” He doesn’t know what he’s begging for, just knows that he needs something right now before he loses his mind.

“Hey, easy there, Sammy.” Dean’s fingers lace through the hand Sam’s left resting in the crook of Dean’s neck, and then Sam’s hand is pinned against the wall as Dean presses a soft kiss to the sliver of collarbone exposed by the unbuttoned neckline of his shirt. The kiss turns sharp, and Sam cries out, his eyes blinking fast, like the pain is disorienting. “I gotcha.”   
  
The words are like magic. Sam’s confusion, hurt, any desire to struggle fades in the face of such indelible support. Dean’s strength, his protectiveness, his ability to catch Sam as he lets himself fall into his arms. They’re central pillars to Sam’s being, now; accepted constants of his universe’s natural laws. Sam lets himself cling to Dean’s shoulder while his other hand is grounded by Dean’s, and lets his head stop trying to right itself, let’s the soft, insistent pull of Dean’s hand in his hair tilt his head to the side and expose his neck.

Dean’s always known him so well; the movement, the surrender, makes him feel intensely vulnerable, and so turned on he can’t breathe. His lungs are burning, and he can’t take a single breath until Dean licks a hot, wet stripe up his neck. The sensation kickstarts his breathing again, and before he can so much as finish his whine of protest at the treatment, Dean’s latched on and is sucking a hickey into Sam’s neck. He doesn’t have a thing for this; he doesn’t. He’s not got some macabre vampire fetish, and if Dean lets even a single flake of glitter near him he’ll stab him, and then shower and try hard for the next week to not think about the horrifying pink rhinoceros of the last time he got covered in glitter. 

But something about this, about being trapped against a wall with his brother’s lips and teeth so close to his jugular, wipes his mind clean white with want. It’s the reliance, the trust of it; the knowing Dean could take these advantages and use his dextrous, capable hands and deadly skill to snap him in half in less time than it would take to realise it was happening. It’s breaking him down and tearing him apart, reforming him in an incoherent bundle of desperation.

“Dean,” Sam gasps, words almost entirely robbed from his thoughts. “Fucking -  _ hell _ \- Dean, just-” He breaks off in a whimper as Dean abruptly lets go of his hair, grips his wrists and shoves them brutally against the wall. “Fuck me!”   
  
“Hell yes.” Dean  _ finally _ brings their lips together, and it’s a frenzy of biting desire. Sam can’t help but be a little vicious, their teeth clashing, and as he swipes his tongue over Dean’s lips he tastes blood that he put there and his breath hitches, and then he grins, overwhelmed and feral, and he feels Dean laugh against his lips. “Yeah, I got it, baby. We both bite. Ain’t no need to get all impatient.”

“There’s plenty need!” Sam fights against the way Dean’s got his wrists trapped, and relishes that he can’t get away - not with how Dean’s knee is nudging his legs apart so his body is flush with Sam’s hard-on, through their jeans. He moans, his hips bucking up involuntarily. “God, Dean, just fucking  _ fuck _ me already.”

Sam would punch the smirk of Dean’s mouth if it wasn’t so attractive. And if Dean wasn’t using those sinful lips to kiss up his neck again, starting to roll his hips in a way that sent sparks of pleasure shuddering through him, until he’s spreading his legs more, humping Dean’s thigh, eyes closed and cheeks flushed as he huffs out tiny little pained sounds of pleasure. It’s not enough, never enough, but he can’t stop himself from doing it anyway.

“Shit, Sammy.” Dean sounds gratifyingly gravelly now. “I got my blood on your neck kissing you.” He leans in and Sam can feel him licking at his sensitised skin, tongue laving over where he’s stained him with lip-prints of blood. Dean draws back, satisfied, and swipes his tongue over his lower lip and the tear in it that Sam just made. Dean’s tongue smears the bead of blood on his lip, and then he sucks it entirely into his mouth, cleans himself off so he doesn’t leave red on Sam’s skin. 

Sam’s not into that anymore; he’s not. He’s had his last fix of demon blood and he’s seen actual, real vampire Dean and that wasn’t half so fun as the romances made it out to be. Except apparently he really is kind of into it, because the image of Dean’s blood on his skin, of the tiny bit of red slowly welling on his lip again, makes him ache with need. It’s like the craving of addiction, but ten times better because he knows he can get it, that it’s not going to destroy either of them unless Dean lets it.

Sam lets his head fall back against the wall with a gentle thunk, and takes a deep breath, struggling to pull himself together enough to speak.

“You okay, man?” Dean’s transferred his wrists into only one of his hands, the free one gently holding Sam’s jawline, tilting his head so their foreheads press together. “I can - we can stop. If the thought of tasting it’s scaring you, baby, I don’t care. I know - I know I reacted like I love it and I really, really fucking do, but I swear to you, it don’t mean jack compared to just having you, you hear me?”

Sam’s unable to keep the slightly delirious laughter from spilling out of him, and Dean’s looking at him in poorly-hidden alarm, so Sam quiets it. “You liking it is the exact opposite of a problem. It was - that wasn’t  _ fear,  _ Dean.”

Dean’s eyes darken with understanding. “Fuck, Sammy, I-” And then Dean’s kissing him, teeth and tongue and pure abandon, hand grabbing at Sam’s hair harshly to force his mouth open, to let Dean in. Sam can taste pain and the metallic, strangely sweet flavour of blood and he’s not sure which of theirs it is. The fact he isn’t certain makes it even hotter than it has any right to be.

The issues that rip us apart and run the deepest, Sam understands, with sex-addled clarity, are the ones that hook us in the most, drag us kicking and screaming and fucking loving it into getting off the hardest. He doesn’t think, can’t think, about just how mind-blowingly good it feels for Dean to call him baby, for Dean to hold him down and subsume his will and just  _ take _ , because right this second he fundamentally doesn’t care so long as he gets to come his brains out of his cock in the imminent future.

“Dean, please, christ, De, I need you, you gotta-” Sam’s got no control, he’s utterly abandoned to Dean’s needs and care, and Dean’s hand holds steady in his hair as he hastily unbuckles their belts, bats away Sam’s clumsy attempts to help.

Sam’s been waiting, been craving this moment all day, and he can’t help the needy moan, the stutter of his hips, when Dean’s fingers slide, slicked with lube, across his hole and deftly tug at the plug in his ass. Dean pistons it in and out, rocking it gently at first, then more and more until he’s fucking Sam with it, the widest part of it stroking across Sam’s prostate with terrible, wonderful precision.

He’s not sure what sounds he’s making anymore, but he’s pretty certain they’re loud enough he could be heard ten states away, even through an everything-warded bunker. He can’t see, everything comes in flashes, impressions of Dean’s eyes, pupils so blown his irises are a bright ring of arresting green, scattered images of Dean’s lips parted in a moan as his eyes flutter shut in bliss because he’s removed the plug and is pushing into Sam, so quick and slick and easy Sam hasn’t even had the time to feel empty.

Dean’s cock feels fucking luxurious inside him, Dean’s strong arms holding him up against the wall, hiking one of his legs up. Sam obediently hooks one leg around Dean’s waist, uses it to try and pull him even deeper inside. Dean’s fucking into him steadily, which is good because Sam’s far from steady, he’s trembling and coming apart at the seams because this is too goddamn good.

Dean’s lips capture his whimper; he sounds almost distressed, but he’s not, because Dean’s dick is silky soft and insistently pressing against his prostate, and then Dean’s hand is on Sam’s cock and he  _ does _ sound distressed because he thinks it’s entirely possible he’ll die from the pleasure whiting out his vision, crackling static through his senses.

He hears Dean’s aborted grunts of effort and pleasure, and the feeling of Dean hard inside him, the sound of him getting closer and closer to the edge, the knowing that Dean’s fucking him and taking his pleasure, jacking Sam off while he grinds mercilessly into him - Dean’s hips break their rhythm as he spills jerkily inside him, kisses him warm and filthy as he bucks into Sam one final time and growls, words disparately gentle. “That’s it, baby. Come on, I got you, Sammy. Come for me.”

Sam comes so hard he thinks he’s gone blind until Dean’s voice coaxes him to open his eyes.

“Hey there, baby. Back with me?” Dean’s grinning, his whole posture screaming bone-deep satisfaction and cocky confidence. For once, Sam really can’t blame him, because fuck it if his sexual confidence isn’t justified.

“Hmmm.” Sam’s vocal cords don’t seem to be co-operating. His limbs feel heavy, and he burrows his head into Dean’s shoulder, unable to contain a whine as Dean’s softening cock slips out of his ass. The feeling is uncomfortable, obscene, and he clings to Dean, leans into the hand stroking through his hair softly.

“Not quite, huh?” Dean sounds awake and amused, the smug little shit. Sam would resent how much energy Dean seems to have after sex, but he’s not far enough through his post-coital, well-fucked haze to do anything much but luxuriate in the sensations.

“Mmmm. I’m at wherever you fucked me to.” Sam mumbles the words into Dean’s shoulder, his words slurring a little with sleepiness.

“Right. Guess my cock left you in next week, then, Sammy. What do you think?” Dean’s laughing for real now, and Sam musters up the strength to poke him on the neck, hard. “Ow! See if I fuck you again, if this is how you treat me after. You’re such a bitch in the afterglow, man.”   
  
“You like fucking me. ‘M’not worried.” Sam takes a breath, and nuzzles into Dean harder, making Dean stumble back a little.

Dean goes with it, supports Sam’s weight until they collapse onto their bed. Sam’s got just enough presence of mind to roll a little, so he’s not got his entire weight on Dean. He then deliberately drapes an arm and leg over Dean and snuggles closer, until his head is resting on Dean’s chest. He draws back, blinks hazily.

“Dude, you’re still in your jacket.” Sam intends to sound accusatory, but it comes out mostly just confused. “Your jacket isn’t soft.”

“Well, it’s leather.” Sam uses his whole body to nudge Dean in response.

“Take it off. It’s cold.” Sam’s thankful that, while Dean can be a jerk, he never holds this against him. He’s never once teased Sam about being so needy, and it’s nice to just let his guard down like this.

“I would, if you hadn’t trapped me with your giant arms.” Sam feels Dean sit up, tugs off his jacket and t-shirt. Dean moves away, and comes back with a wet cloth. Sam lets him strip them both of the rest of their clothes, and hisses under his breath when Dean cleans him up. He masterfully doesn’t moan or melt when Dean presses a quick kiss to the inside of his thigh after, or complain when Dean vanishes to get rid of the cloth.

Finally, the bed dips under Dean’s weight, and Sam burrows under the covers Dean lifts up for them both, re-tangling their limbs the instant he lies down.

He rests his head on Dean’s chest, and listens to the gentle thud of his heartbeat, closes his eyes and gives himself up to the sensations of Dean’s calloused fingers soothing his hair, the rumble as he hums Metallica quietly.

When Dean’s fingers stop petting, Sam, in a herculean effort, manages to poke Dean in the ribs.

“Fucking ow, man! What is it with you and poking me?” Dean sounds far too indignant for Sam to even begin to process right now.   
  
“You stopped.” He presses a quick kiss to Dean’s chest when he resumes stroking his hair.

“You’re such an ass.” He doesn’t sound mad; he sounds fond.

“Yeah,” Sam grins, and nestles into Dean’s side, contentedly. “But I’m  _ your _ ass. And you’re mine.”

“You got that right, Sammy.” There’s a smile in Dean’s voice that Sam will never tire of hearing. “Now shut up and get some rest, ‘cause you’re fucking loopy right now.”

“Mmmm. Whatever.” Sam drifts off to sleep with Dean’s fingers still gently carding through his hair.

**Author's Note:**

> I am terrible at thinking of titles, so the title is a Buffy reference.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this, despite my overall inability to come up with interesting summaries. And possible inability to write smut. I'm meant to be working on my longer fics, but I have been very busy and then this oneshot just appeared in my brain. I hope you enjoyed this! And I promise I'm still working on my other stuff, too.
> 
> Comments and kudos make me as happy as Sam & Dean could make each other if canon stopped fucking with them all the time! <3


End file.
